


Pastry Suite (Ode to a Malasada)

by annieke



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annieke/pseuds/annieke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve thinks Danny has an addiction to the things, but no, Danny thinks he's addicted to something--someone--else.<br/>Besides, a little something sweet now and then doesn't hurt anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pastry Suite (Ode to a Malasada)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 Spring Fling for this prompt:
> 
> Anonymous posted: Steve always said fast food would kill him, but Danny hadn't expected it to be because a desperate armed robber chose the bakery he'd happened to stop at before work.

“Malasada?”

Steve shakes his head and Danny just laughs, knowing he wouldn’t really be able to tempt the man. He stuffs half the thing into his own mouth, eyes closing with the intense rush of sugary pleasure. Like a little burst of doughnut heaven.

“They’re not Hawaiian, you know," he tells Steve.

“What’s not?”

“These things.” Holds up the uneaten portion that’s leaving a film of sticky all over his fingers. “Malasadas. They’re actually Portuguese.” He can’t help take a not-so-quick lick at the sticky. So fucking incredible. 

Steve’s just sending him that stare, the one that falls somewhere between I can't believe you and I can't believe I'm sitting here listening to you, holding his eyes until they shift and….

“I see you looking at it. Too late, my friend. I offered. You turned me down. Get your eyes off my malasada and back on the road there.” Although he’s pretty sure Steve wasn’t just staring at the malasada. Not like he could miss that peek of tongue tracing over Steve’s bottom lip as he watched him lick his fingers. Not like Danny hadn’t done it on purpose, either.

Ever since they started up whatever this is between them after Steve all but manhandled him to his place when Danny had had that more wretched than wretched cold last month, they've been enjoying slowly pushing one another's buttons to see who does what. And when. And how.

And this one, the one involving any part of Danny's tongue is a sure button-push for Steve. Every time. So, Danny's going to enjoy the hell out of this malasada, for sure.

Steve makes a left at the next corner. “You're a tease."

"Tease? I'm eating, how is that teasing?"

"Like you don't know. How’d you get yourself up and moving early enough to get to the bakery before I showed up, anyway? And oh, by the way? I know they’re originally Portuguese.”

Danny swipes his tongue over the last remainder of sugary slick coating his fingers. Nothing tastes as good as a fresh malasada in the morning. Glances at Steve and thinks, well, almost nothing.

“I didn’t—I mean, come on. Have you ever known me to get up early for anything—even doughnuts?”

“Then how’d you get it?”

“My neighbor. The one upstairs from me. You met him.” Not hard to miss that eye roll.

“Oh, god. Not that guy.” Steve’s frowning, and Danny can’t say he doesn’t mind the veil of jealousy he’s pretty sure he’s looking at in that frown. Apparently this neighbor of his is another button. “Eddie-G.”

Danny nods. “Yeah, that's him. But he dropped that ‘G’ thing. Just goes by Ed or Eddie now.”

“Eddie.”

“Yeah. Well, I call him Eddie.”

“Do you. That’s uh…nice. He still referring to you as ‘Dan’?”

Steve's not looking at him. Is clearly trying to be all non-caring about the whole conversation, as though Eddie the neighbor didn't immediately grate on his nerves like Danny knows he did. Guy grates on his own nerves, too, although he does feel a bit bad about that. Eddie's just one of those 'tries too hard' kind of guys.

Steve now has both hands gripping the wheel, eyes glued to the light in front of them as if he's about the most cautious driver in the world and nothing Danny could say would ever be distracting enough for him to peel eyes away from the road. It's hilarious. Inwardly, Danny is laughing his ass off. Outwardly, he’s hard pressed not to unleash his smirkiest grin. Steve's buttons are just so easy sometimes. “Well, yeah. Eddie calls me Dan. It is my name.”

Okay, that has Steve’s head whipping at him. “No one calls you Dan.”

He meets Steve’s eyes. “My Dad sometimes calls me Dan.”

“No one here.”

“No one here called me Danno, either, until you started in. Well, no one here besides Grace.”

Stares at Steve for a few seconds until Steve turns back to look through the windshield, then can’t help but keep staring at his profile. Steve has a beautiful profile. Especially when he’s getting stirred up. Danny’s all for stirring up—all for button-pushing.

He turns back and finishes off the last little piece of malasada, purposely licking the length of each and every one of his fingers, and not being too quiet about it, either.

He so notices Steve noticing. 

**

“Geeze, Danny. What is that?”

Danny stares at the apparently offensive item, rotating it to and fro. “Uh, well, on this planet, we call it a cupcake. Lord knows what they call it where you're from.”

“Tell me you’re not eating that.”

“Is that a trick question?” Because honestly? It’s pretty apparent that he’s eaten half the thing already. 

“Jesus, Danny. What's it been, like every day this week?”

"Huh?"

"You and…" Steve nods towards the last little bit of cupcake between Danny's fingers.

"Every day—" Wait a minute. “Oh, okay. Excuse me. Every day—which has been, what, all of three days as of today which is Wednesday.” He finishes off the cupcake and licks his fingers because he just can’t help himself. The things are that good: cloud-like cake filled with strawberry curd and topped with sour cream frosting. It’s all he can do not to lick the inside of the box just in case there’s a crumb or two left behind.

“So, yes, Steve. That would be three. Three days. Not seven, which constitutes a week. Three. Three days I had something sweet to eat. What, is that a crime now? Do I offend your healthy habits so much you feel the need to comment?”

Steve’s squinting at him, face pulled with annoyance. "Yes, Danny, actually you do. Those things are lethal. Do you have any idea how much sugar, fat and—“

“Stop. You think I don’t know that a baked good isn’t the healthiest choice?”

“I’m beginning to wonder, yes.”

Danny grabs a napkin and brushes crumbs from his shirt. “Okay. Okay. Like I said, it was three. Three things. In three days. That is all. Not all at one time. Not even in the same day. Three different desserts, three different days.”

Steve is flat out frowning at him. “Danny. I think you have an addiction.”

“An addic—lemme tell you something. I am fine. No addiction. None. I mean, they’re good. They're delicious. They’re amazing, in fact, but I wouldn’t say I was in need of an intervention here.” He brushes away more crumbs on his shirt, and what is that, a little dot of frosting left on his finger? “Besides, not like I’m purposely buying the things for myself.”

“What? If you're not getting them, then where—oh, don’t tell me.”

The look on Steve’s face....“He’s just being nice, Steve. Neighborly. Giving. Sweet. Something you might try sometime.”

“You think I’m not giving? Not sweet? Because I don't buy you little heart attacks waiting to happen all rolled in sugar and flour and icing?”

“Did I say that? I didn’t hear myself say that. No. I just mean that there are times where you’re, you know, being all--you—and I'm not going to have a heart attack from eating a malasada or a cupcake now and again.”

"Three in three days, Danny."

"Oh, for—" He sends Steve his harshest glare and Steve seems to back down, although while he doesn’t say anything more, Danny can sense he wants to. So much.

He holds up a hand and offers up a slight smile to Steve, who’s frowning. Still. “Listen. The only reason Eddie's been picking these up this week is because there’s a brand new bakery that’s just opened around the corner, and I can’t even begin to tell you how incredible the smell is around my and Eddie’s building. Eddie’s been heading there in the morning and sampling the goods. One whiff and you’d understand, Steve, I’m telling you.”

“Eddie’s been buying you malasadas.”

“He knows I like them, so he’s given me one of anything he picks up over there.”

“Every day for three days.”

“Okay, you know? You’ve already said that, Steve. What is the problem because clearly this a problem for you.”

Steve's got his arms crossed and that little horizontal line is doing its bisecting thing between his eyebrows, which is never a good sign. He’s frowning, too. “Danny, I think we’ve already established I think it’s a problem for _you_.”

He's not going to back down on this. It's not like he's eating these things by the case, for god's sake. "I have no problem, except for the one standing in front of me who's giving me shit over a doughnut. I just like a little something sweet now and then, is that so horrible?"

Steve just looks at him and says, flatly, "Those things are going to kill you one day.”

Danny licks at that little smidge of sour cream icing on the tip of his finger, watches Steve watching him…and his tongue.

Done in by sugar, maybe. But oh, what a way to go.

**

The thing is, Danny may have a problem.

Not huge, no, he wouldn’t say huge, and no way in hell would he ever admit to Steve that he really might have an issue with saying no to these things…it's just…

Damn, that bakery is amazing. The temptation is getting to him. Every morning he's being awakened at six a.m. by the rich, sweet, decadent aroma of baking pasty dough filling his bedroom, wafting through his nose and, seriously, who can possibly resist?

It's delicious, mouth-watering, and right around the corner. It's _Anuenue_ , which apparently means rainbow in Hawaiian, but pretty much stands for god damn I haven’t eaten anything this good in forever, to him—and the worst part that’s also the best part, it's located within spitting distance of his apartment, and everything, every damn little thing they bake is fresh and homemade and incredible. It's killing him. Killing him!

Not that he would ever tell Steve that.

"Please, Steven. I said please." He is not whining. No.

“No, Danny. I'm not going to aid and abet your habit by driving you there, especially after you've already eaten the crap I just watched you eat for lunch.”

“Okay, first off, aid and abet? Did you just say that, really?"

“Danny--”

Danny nods. “Well that’s good. No, really. Good that you know the term and all, but it doesn’t so much apply in this case, now does it? Forgive me if I have this wrong, but I do not believe there is a crime in purchasing a little dessert item after one has eaten. Also? I had a burrito. It had lettuce. It had tomato. Same thing that's in a salad—plus, hello? If I want you to drive me there, you drive me there. It's my car.”

“No, Danny. Forget it. I’m starting to worry about you and I’m not going to be an enabler.“

“Enabler. Really. Huh. You're worried. Lemme see here…were you worried when you got me shot that first day lo, those years ago? Or, let’s see…gosh, there are just so many situations from which to choose. Situations where I truly do not have any recollection of you being an actual worrywart, as you were more the cause of said situations, leaving me to worry instead. Yet now, because I expressed the desire to partake of a simple after lunch confection, you're all worried."

"Confection?'

"Yes, Steve. Confection. Sweet. Dessert treat. That bakery, you have no idea. They sell a multitude of really good, freshly baked—"

"Okay, Danny. Do you even hear yourself?"

"Steve."

“No, Danny. No. I just think you should lay off the, you know, sugary pastries.“

Then Steve does it: glances at him, giving him that quick once-over that comes across more than a little judgmental here.

“What? What was that? Are you insinuating that you think I’m pudgy?”

"I never said that. I never said it."

**

Okay. Okay. So Danny’s given up taking any of the delicious but sinful offerings put forth by the bakery via Eddie the Enabler, as Steve now refers to him.

It's not like he’s eaten the things every day, he hasn't. It’s not like he doesn’t want to, though. So freaking good.

Jesus, what do they put in those baked goods anyway?

Still, he’s a little sad about it, if only because there isn’t one thing he’s sampled that’s not been complete and utter heaven in his mouth. Which makes him think of Steve. Huh. Now there's a possible addiction.

He and Steve have been moving slowly up whatever this path is called that's studded with long looks, heated touches, intense kisses and the six hand jobs, two blow jobs they've already racked up, not that anyone's counting.

Danny's glad Steve's okay keeping on the same slow pace, though. They haven't yet told anyone, still trying to judge for themselves whether or not this thing between them is going to work or go anywhere. There are so many factors to consider, he's not sure either of them have really wrapped their heads around it all, good or bad. He's not sure where they're going, or if it'll last, but for right now, it's definitely working. Oh, yeah.

So, yeah, he'll lay off the junk food for a while; he only needs one insane addiction in his life at a time.

Eddie looks a little sad, though, when Danny tells him no more pastries. No more cupcakes. Brownies. No more malasadas. 

No more of those little crispy handmade _Cheese-itz_ …which are better than the store-bought ones by miles.

Eddie just stands there at Danny's door with that little pink pastry box in hand, it’s gold cord tied in a bow, just waiting for someone to pull its string.

“Thanks but no thanks, Eddie. I gotta take a break.”

Eddie's holding the little box forward. “But I got these for you, Danny.”

Danny actually has to internally duke it out with himself. “Yeah, I appreciate it, I do. But I need to lay off for a while.” He places a hand over his usually taut stomach and winces. “Thanks, though.”

“It’s a kolach, Danny.”

Which, what? “I don’t know what that is…” and maybe that's a good thing. He doesn't need to add to his confection repertoire.

“They just started making them. Told me it’s a Czech sweet roll filled with—“

“Eddie, seriously. Stop,” Danny cuts him off before his brain sells him out any further. “Really, I can’t, but, again, thank you for thinking of me. I just need to stay away from sugar for a while.” 

The look on Eddie’s face--like someone just shot his dog. Jeeze.

Danny can’t shut the door quickly enough. On Eddie. On the kolach.

It's a sad, sad morning.

**

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Danny says just staring at the damage in front of him.

In the end it doesn’t really matter who did what, and they could all stand and argue about it 'til the nenes come home and it won't really matter because, yeah, in the end all there remains is a certain silver Camaro sporting a buckled hood and a crumpled fender. And a partner with a hitch in his spine and a wrenched neck which renders him unable to turn to pretty much either side without moving his entire upper body while also shuddering in pain.

Guy behind them rammed them so hard to shove them forward into the car in front of them—and the truly ridiculous thing? They were at a red light. They weren’t even moving.

Danny knows it wasn’t really Steve’s fault, but still…these things never seem to happen when he's driving his own car. Then again, not like he ever really gets to drive his own car.

Fuck. His insurance is going to soar sky high.

Currently, he just wants to throttle somebody, anybody; his head is exploding from the pressure of keeping it all reined in and the moment he senses Steve about to open his mouth as they both stand there looking at the wreckage makes him about lose it altogether. 

"Don't say it. Just—do not."

"I wasn't going to say—"

"You were. I know you were. You know you were. Just—shut it."

"Danny—"

"Shut up, Steven. Really." 

**

Steve’s back in the office a few hours later looking a bit more rumpled than usual. A little more bent over, too. Danny watches him slowly make his way to lean against his office doorjamb.

“You okay? What’d the doctor say?”

"I'm okay," Steve nods. Slightly. “Yeah, doc says it’s just muscular. I’ll just be a bit stiff for a while, that's all.”

"Stiff," he repeats.

Steve just stands there and gives him a long stare. That stare that makes Danny's stomach flutter, then grins outright. "You have a dirty mind, Detective Williams."

Sometimes it's hard to keep a straight face around Steve. "What? I have a dirty mind? I said stiff. You said stiff. Your doctor said stiff. We all said stiff. Doesn't mean I'm thinking anything."

Steve's shaking his head now. "Really. Because you're looking at me like you look at a malasada."

"You're a sad, deluded, stiff man. You can only wish I found you that tasty."

Danny loves when Steve's eyes go all round like that. 

"Oh," Steve tells him. "You know I'm that tasty. Sweet like a malasada."

"Do I? Huh. Haven't had any in so long, maybe I've forgotten what tasty tastes like," he replies and for an injured man—okay, stiff—Steve is sending him the most lascivious look. "So stiff guy, tell me what is it, really—whiplash?"

“No. Not really. Kind of. A little. Listen, Danny, I’m really sorry about the car.”

Danny nods. “Yeah, I know. Not your fault.” This time, he thinks. For once.

“Okay.” There’s a long, silent pause, and then Steve adds, “Hey, so I was thinking—”

"No."

"No?"

"No as in…no." Danny replies because Steve's clearly looking like he's going to erupt with some sort of news he's sure is terrifically exciting and Danny's sure is going to be some godawful thing he doesn't want to do, and he's not going to give in to whatever madness is on Steve's mind.

Danny's been here before, after all, and, okay, he’s still just a tad bit pissed about this morning’s wreck, he'll admit, whether or not Steve had anything to do with the idiot behind them barreling into them like he did. Besides, his head kind of hurts and his vision's kind of blurry and he's been wondering the past few days if he isn't actually suffering through some sort of sugar withdrawal. Not that he's going to expose that little nugget to the light of day. Or Steve.

So, yeah. It's been a long sugar-free week and an exceptional fucking morning…and great. Steve’s now thrusting some sort of envelope under his nose.

“Okay, well. Here, anyway. I got this for you.”

Danny just stares at the envelope in Steve’s hand. "Steve. While I'm truly relieved no one, including you and especially me, was seriously injured this morning, it's been a long day already without adding to it. I am more than sure that I don't really want to know what outrageous thing you have clutched in your grubby paws, right? I'm not going to be a part of it. Just, no."

Steve holds up his hands. "Grubby paws? Danny, you don’t even know what this is.”

"No as in, no. I'm not interested. Not asking. Not doing. Just not.''

"So that would be no as in…not."

"Not listening."

"Danny--"

"Not talking."

"Well that'd be a first."

"Not caring."

“Really, Danny. Not caring?”

Oh, for… "I care. Of course I care, Steven…but no. Just no." 

The few minutes that pass are thick, and then Danny sighs, because he’s a dad and he can feel that aura of disappointment without having to actually look it in the face.

So he sits back in his chair and flips the pen onto the desk. "Okay. what? What? What is it that's so important for you to give me that you're still standing there and ignoring my no." A pause. "What, Steven?"

"I'm sorry about the car, Danny. Really. I am. And I know you're still upset about it and so, well, that's why I thought maybe this would be a nice break."

Danny's doing a gesturing thing with his hand--an impatient 'come-on, come-on, fork it over' type of maneuver, so Steve hands over the envelope and is clearly trying not to let his grin get too overbearing. Danny can see Steve’s tired. Hell, he's tired, too. It's been a long day.

"What is-- this is a gift certificate."

"Yeah."

"To that bakery. Anuenue. The one by my place."

"Yeah. Well, yeah."

"You got me a gift certificate. Okay--and, Steve, you do realize this buys things that are full of fat and sugar and carbs? Did I mention sugar?''

Steve gives him the eye. "Uh, yes. It’s a bakery. I’m well aware.”

"And after giving me all that shit and telling me that one day a malasada would be the death of me, you bought it anyway. For me."

"Yeah. I guess I did, yeah."

"Okay. Okay, and you did this because you’re secretly trying to kill me?"

"Jeeze, Danny. I thought it would be nice. I was being nice and, what was it? Giving, right? Like you said I wasn't. Sweet."

Danny's laughing, but it's that sharp sound that's more like a chuff of disbelief than true humor even though deep down, he's really very touched. "Yeah, okay. I never said you weren't nice. Crazy out there, maybe. A little left of starboard, absolutely, but I never said you weren't nice. I mean, you do have your moments."

"My moments, huh?"

"Yeah. Like now. Like this, " and Danny indicates the space between them. "This is a moment.

"A nice moment?'

Danny waves the gift certificate between them. "A sweet moment, anyway."

**

Overload doesn’t even begin to cover the depth of that very minute when Danny finds his lips locked onto Steve’s, their tongues thrusting and his back pressed hard to his apartment wall behind them, Steve’s leg shoved up high and tight between his own legs, his own dick aching like nobody’s business inside his pants and good Christ, how in the hell does Steve manage to have eight arms moving all at one time?

Here, here in his own private sanctum, where no eyes penetrate—and he has to stop thinking of the word penetrate—and no one is allowed in without invitation, where he can ravage who he wants and when and how—Steve—and oh, lord, he and Steve have an electric current that races from one to the other sometimes….

If he wants to lip lock with this man, this friend, this partner, eat him alive, devour him down, well, it’s nobody’s business but his own.

So when his apartment door pushes open and the light of day pours in from outside and he and Steve are both illuminated, blinking into it with god knows what expressions on their faces, the last person he’s expecting to see standing there gaping at them with his mouth open wide and some weird noise coming out is Eddie, the pastry pimp. The enabler. His neighbor from upstairs.

“Oh!“ is about all Eddie manages and for one quick second, Danny is frozen solid. He never has been one for public spectacle.

“Can I help you?” Steve asks and the look of smug written over his features is one that's only acquired by skill. Danny's noticed Steve's hands are still on him, too. The man didn't even budge in the face of this intruder.

Eddie seems…taken aback. “I’m uh, sorry. I didn’t realize, I didn’t know—“

Danny’s pushed himself away from Steve, trying to extricate himself from large hands that don’t seem to have any sort of release button, and then Steve’s shifting, turning, wedging closer and wrapping an arm around his waist, pulling him in tighter than before, tucking his chin over Danny's shoulder while saying, “Something we can do for you, Ed?”

Eddie’s still kind of gawking at them, half shaking his head and stammering a bit when Steve then adds, “Yeah. Didn’t really think so,” taps the door shut, gently and with no apparent malicious intent, even though Danny is hard pressed to believe Steve didn’t want to just slam it in the guy's face.

"That was fun,” Steve then breathes into his ear, along with a wet tongue.

Shit.

**

There's a feeling Danny gets, there down deep in the pit of his belly that's he's sure is a sign of impending ulcer. It started years ago with Rachel and the arguing, grew through the dissolution of their marriage. The moving to Hawaii. His own poisoning. Steve's being accused of murder. Grace's kidnapping…right on up to yesterday’s accident…

To this moment right here. Some events are just more stomach churning than others.

“You’re heading to the bakery?” Eddie's nodding to the large pink gift certificate Danny has in hand. It has a bright rainbow printed across the front. Not hard to miss.

“Hey, Eddie. Yeah, thought I’d you know, go peruse a bit since I've got this certificate.”

Danny ran into him right outside his apartment door. Okay, maybe not exactly right outside his door, but close enough which, given Eddie just watched him kissing Steve less than an hour ago, is a little odd. That Eddie's still hanging around odd, not the kissing Steve part. 

Eddie’s just kind of staring him down, and okay, so getting caught out with Steve like that is making Danny feel a bit uncomfortable, yes, but no reason Eddie should be glaring at him this way. He swears he can practically feel the animosity. The guy didn't really strike him as a hater.

“Huh. Guess you got over your aversion to sweets, then, huh, Dan?”

“What?”

“You. You told me the other day, when I offered you one of those Russian sweet roll things—“

“Wait—I thought you said they were Czech?”

“You turned me down. Said you were cutting back. Said you didn't want me bringing you anything any more.”

“No, that's not exactly what— Okay, I, yeah, I do need to cut back and yes, I did say that, but, you know. Sometimes temptation is hard to resist.”

Eddie's just giving him some weird expression, then practically sneers as he says, “Yeah, Dan-no. I could tell.” And walks away.

Danno, huh. That's new, and okay, whatever. Maybe Eddie’s not big on seeing two guys all over one another, which, frankly, Danny can pretty much relate. He doesn’t want to see anyone’s intimate moments that up close and personal, either—whether two guys, a guy and a girl, two girls. Or wait...maybe that last one, but none of the others.

Still, he does feel a little off put by Eddie’s reaction. Like he thinks Danny lied to him somehow, to avoid all the little pastry presents Eddie was bestowing his way.

Jesus. What does he care what his neighbor thinks? It's nobody's business but his and Steve's. Right? God. He's sure to be downing Maalox by the gallon by the time he's forty—assuming he'll ever reach forty having Steve as a partner. In all senses.

His stomach spasms and he swallows down the taste of bitter bile.

Maybe he really does need to lay off the baked goods, he thinks, until he picks up the incredible scent of freshly baked something--so maybe he'll start tomorrow.

Besides, Steve hasn't had a chance to sample any thing yet.

Never mind Eddie his neighbor. Steve’s the enabler now, which Danny delighted in telling him—over and over—before he left for the bakery. Before Steve practically shoved him out the door.

Danny’s pretty much petting the gift certificate in his pocket. He can’t seem to help himself, which is Steve's fault.

Steve, who he left sprawled across his bed, all naked skin and masculine sweat and those fucking tattoos everywhere. Fifteen minutes. Danny told him he could get to the bakery and back in fifteen minutes, and Steve said great. Fifteen minutes. That in fifteen minutes, when Danny returned, Steve would be waiting for him, naked, hard, ready for Danny to spread that sour cream frosting he's so enamored with all over his torso and points south for Danny to lick off.

Fifteen minutes, yeah, right. He'll make it five.

The chime on the door sounds brightly welcoming as Danny pulls the door, startled a bit by a cat—a cat with a moustache—that runs between his legs. He hopes it's okay that the cat's outside and steps his way inside.

Instantly he inhales. Talk about nectar of the gods. Sugar gods, maybe, but still…there isn’t much more he can think of that smells better than the freshly baked whatever it is they're baking. Well, Steve maybe, but…nah. Not even Steve competes with this heavenly scent.

There's no one around, so he checks out everything inside the glass case. Cookies, cupcakes. Some square things iced in soft pastel colors, brownies. God, is that drool? Maybe Steve's right. Maybe he does have an addiction.

“Hello?”

Nothing, although there're noises from behind a set of double doors he assumes leads to the kitchen. Maybe they didn't hear him.

There’s a basket with a free sample sign and how can he resist? How can anyone? Small, nugget sized rounds filled with sweet…mango, he’s pretty sure. The second one is filled with something red and sweet and fruity and who the hell cares what it is, it's so good.

“Hey--hello? Anyone around? Hello?”

Again some faint noise and he raps lightly on those double doors, about to push one open when it swings toward him and a young man in his mid-twenties rushes out knocking Danny stumbling a few steps backward.

“Yeah?”

Okay, that's a bit abrupt. “Hi. Hey there. I’m uh, just looking to get a couple things,” Danny tells him, pointing to the case and then turning back when a loud crash sounds in the back room.

The guy just glances that way, then back to Danny, then to Danny’s gun there on his hip, taking a long moment to stare at it before he meets Danny’s eyes. “Yeah. Ah, we closed.”

“Closed? You’re closed? Your door was open. There's a sign.” Turns to point at the 'open' sign hanging over the door. "See? Right there."

“Forgot to lock it. Sorry, we got nothing to sell today.”

Which is enough to make Danny begin a protest because for god’s sake the glass counter is full of all sorts of things, when another crash, a sharp cry and then the sound of what sounds like skin striking skin all but thunders through the room.

The guy's eyes flick sharply toward the door, then back to him, and oh, fuck. This is so not looking good.

“Everything okay?’

“It’s nothin’, brah. Don’t concern you. Like I said, we closed.”

Yeah, okay, the guy is trying to usher him out, but not for nothing, Danny’s learned a lot over his many years as a detective. He fingers his phone in his pocket as he turns toward the door, ready to tell Steve to get his ass over here after calling for a back-up unit, when the look on the guy’s face twitches.

It's a split-second and Danny moves to undo his gun at the same time another crash—no, more like a thump, like a dulled version of that first noise--fills his head from behind. It takes but another second to realize someone’s just struck the back of his skull—someone behind him—and he begins a slow stumble, eyes watering and ears ringing and everything's going double vision, and the first guy's there in his face, grasping him in a flying tackle as they both crash through the double doors.

Danny goes again for his gun—gone—while his other hand flails wildly, catching the rim of something hard that flies airborne as the weight of the guy takes them both to the floor. A beat later, they're in a veritable blizzard. 

Or no, not a blizzard, exactly, but there's white everywhere—everywhere—and he's sneezing, sneezing, eyes watering. Someone else is also sneezing, but there's no time to figure it out as he rolls to his feet because there's another man there and he's then kicked in the side, hurtling into a table or counter or who knows what, grabbing whatever he can get his hands around to throw. Something hard and sharp is in his grip and he strikes the guy in the head with enough force to feel the vibrations ripple up into his biceps and then down through his entire body, but he has no time to think….

He's on the floor again—how—vaguely registering something wet slowly trickling down the back of his head, down his face. His head is exploding from the inside now, and he swipes at his cheek, fingers coming away dripping red, and then catches the eyes of a woman crouched low in the corner, hands over her head and screaming, screaming until the other guy backhands her and she falls prone, her hand right next to Danny's gun on the floor.

He grabs for it, rolls to his knees in time to see a blur of movement coming at him from behind, turns quickly and then there’s just noise and color and white everywhere—it's snowing again—and his head truly is exploding now, filled with unrelenting sound and horrendous pain and all he can think as his knees give out is thank god he’s going to pass out before he actually feels his face slam down hard onto the floor.

**

Someone tell the neighbors to shut up. Please.

There’s noise. Banging and yelling. Lots of yelling, which is annoying as he’s sure there’s a sound ordinance around this apartment complex. He’s seen signs. No loud music or loud voices after midnight.

So what the hell?

And that. What was that? Loud—that was really loud. Deafening. Like a gunshot blast loud. In his head loud. What…is that?

What is that—is that the TV?

Then someone's crying. A woman is crying.

If he could manage to get his eyes open, he’d find out, he would, he's a helpful kind of guy. Then again, maybe he’s just dreaming. Maybe it’s just all a dream, and it must be, he figures, because he can't seem to get his eyes open. Can't get back to sleep. Can't seem to wake up fully.

Someone turn down the TV.

"Danny?"

"Here! In here! Please!"

Someone please turn it down. It's too loud. There are voice everywhere, swirling around him and they're loud and confusing….

"Oh, my God!"

"Okay, Eddie, I need you to stay back. Just relax. Ma'am. It's okay. I'm with Five-O—the police. Are you okay? Are you okay?"

"Yes, okay. I'm okay. I—they came in. Two men. Back here. One—I think one is dead. I don’t know, I don't know—"

"Okay. Okay. Take a deep breath and calm down. Are you hurt? No? Okay. Can you tell me what happened?"

"They came in—I thought they just wanted money, that one had a gun, but then they wouldn't leave and I was so sure they were going to hurt me. And then he—that man came in—that haole, and he… he's over here. He's…he…they hit him so hard."

“Ah…Jesus, Danny. Only you.”

Danny’d take umbrage if he could wake up. If he could even move, but something heavy is holding him down, pinning him down with a hand on his neck and one on the center of his back.

"Don't move, Danny. Just stay tight for a minute. Everything's okay. Just stay down—can you hear me? Here, miss—Danny, don't move. Miss? The ambulance is on its way. Here, go with the officer. Let me help you there."

Don't move. He's not going to move. It hurts to move. Hurts to breathe, too, and the urge to sneeze keeps coming over him, too. He knows that voice, though. What the hell is going on? He knows his name is Danny. Knows there's more he should know, but it's hard to think past his name. If he could only manage to wake up.

"Just sit—here, I got you some water. You wanna call someone? Officer can you help her?"

Talking, talking. More TV. Definitely knows that voice, though. Knows he should recognize it, but can't quite…someone's touching again.

“Eddie. Just back off a bit, will you? I got him.”

Okay, yeah. That one. That voice, he knows. Knows he knows but can’t place…can't think through the fog.

Which somehow has got to be Steve’s fault, he's sure. Definitely something that would only happen when Steve's around. Crazy fucker.

Oh, wait. That—that was Steve’s voice. That is Steve's voice.

How did Steve get on TV?

**

Steve? Something is brushing his face. And it hurts. 

Everything hurts. The throb in his head is almost intolerable. His pulse is reverberating in his temples. His knees pound, his heart pounds, his eyes, behind his eyes, his face, all pound with an unrelenting insistence that’s all-consuming, growing into a hideous rhythm section doing some sort of—what was it Kono was showing them?

Zumba. There's Zumba is in his head.

He feels nauseous. He is nauseous. No, he really…he is…he is…and yeah. Vomiting. Fuck.

"Help me roll him away from that. Eddie, wait—let me get my hand under his head. Careful."

"He looks terrible."

“Yeah. He'll be fine…Danny?”

Steve? Hands brush over his face again.

"Danny?"

"Here, use this. Jeeze, he's covered in it."

More wiping of his face. He wishes they would stop.

"Danny?"

He tries to answer. Tries to gather thoughts together, but just as he thinks he's got a connection, everything grays around him again, dimming in a way that leaves him somewhat numb. Lifting a finger is harder than he thought so he gives up. Slipping away into the cool depths of wherever it is he’s floating seems a much better plan. So he does.

Then is pulled back abruptly, and he can't help emit a soft groan of protest. This is too hard. Shit. Just how much did he have to drink?

"Danny?'

"Stop," he mumbles and oh, that hurts. Moves his head a fraction of an inch and yeah, that hurts, too.

"You there, Dan? Dan-no? Hey, I think he's waking up."

"Chin? I gotta go. Danny's coming around again. Yeah, meet us at the ER. No point in you both coming out here."

Now there are hands on him, more than before, and he slowly lets his eyes unglue to sliver open. Light immediately assaults him along with a searing spike to his brain. This time, the groan that escapes is not so soft. Feels like someone ran him over with a bulldozer. Yeah, this is all just peachy.

"Hey. Hey. Take it easy, Danno. You're okay. You're okay."

Okay. He's okay. He rests for a minute, maybe longer than a minute. Panting. Coughing still. Takes inventory. Yeah, still hurting.

"What time is it?" he says, maybe mumbles. It's hard to tell.

Someone laughs, and again a hand sweeps over his face. Cups his face. "Why, you in a hurry? Got somewhere you need to be?"

"Steve's…waiting." For him, he thinks. He was supposed to be doing something, and Steve is waiting. Naked. That was it, right?

"Danno. I'm right here, okay? Relax. You're okay."

Suddenly an image forms in his head. "The woman—there's a woman."

"She's okay, D. She's good. Everything's good. She's out with the officer already. You did good, Danny. She's okay. She's okay."

He blinks, mixed hues of color fusing together to form shapes. Shapes hovering over him. His stomach rolls and he groans.

"Okay. Here. I can help. Take it easy. Deep breaths, Dan. Okay? Slowly."

A voice is in his ear and hands are on him again. That's—not Steve. 

"I said I got him, Eddie, I got him. We're good. You go wait for the ambulance, okay? Let 'em know where we are."

There's a long pause then, and he reaches out, his hand suddenly taken up by Steve.

"Be still, Danny. You've got a good sized goose egg on the back of your head."

Red. Liquid red drips from his hand, down his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see it everywhere. "Blood," he whispers, shuddering as much from the pain in his head as the sight of so much thick blood. It's all over him.

Sees Steve. Pretty sure it's Steve. Is Steve laughing? "What time is it?"

"Don’t worry about that, and it's not all blood. It's some mix of flour and I don't know, strawberry or raspberry or something—a little blood. Mostly raspberry. Not so much blood, really."

Hears more noise. Shadows move around again. Steve's talking to people. Eddie's here. Why is Eddie here?

"I followed you—I mean, I was headed to the bakery, too. Good thing I did, too. I saw what happened and ran back to get your…partner. I kind of saved you, Dan. Dan-no. I did. I saved you."

He blinks for a moment, what? Then realizes he must have faded for a while as when he opens eyes again, he finds himself in the back of an ambulance. His head feels a little clearer now. "Steve?"

"Here, Danno. I'm right here."

"What?"

"You're okay. Concussion for sure, but you're okay. What…what do you remember?"

He's not sure. There are pieces of things in his head, like sound-bites. With wavy pictures and wavering voices. It's hard to pin anything down.

"Eddie was there?"

Steve doesn't answer him for a bit, then nods. "Yeah, he...helped. Guess he saw when the guy in the bakery took you down. Ran back, got me… so yeah. He was there."

The paramedic is doing something to him, but he keeps eyes focused on Steve. "She okay? That woman?"

"Yeah. She's okay, or will be. If you hadn't walked in, Danny, or if they hadn't forgotten to lock the door, it could've—anyway. She's alright. She works there, says the owner's been away at a training session all week."

Danny paws at his chest. Something sticky is all over him. "What's?"

Steve's laughing. "Well, it's not blood, thank god. When I first saw you on the floor, covered in—well, let's just say I freaked a bit."

"Worry?"

Steve's eyes do things to Danny's stomach when they crinkle up like that, and he doesn't mean in an ulcer kind of way. "Yeah, Danno. I was worried." He laughs again. "But—it's all just a mix of pastry flour and strawberry puree. Like a…a bloody roux, the lady said."

"That sounds…disgusting."

Steve shakes his head. "No, I don’t know. I'll bet you taste pretty good, actually."

Something clears in his head. The image of something… "You were waiting for me."

"Yeah, D," Steve is whispering now, lips brushing against his ear. "You remember that part?"

Danny closes his eyes. Yes, his head hurts. Yes, he's covered in a sticky mess. Yes, images are still jumbled in his brain. "Fifteen minutes," he says softly.

He has no idea why that's funny to Steve, and can only assume that Steve will tell him later, but smiles along with Steve anyway because the paramedic must have given him something and now his head is floating and he can't seem to focus on any one thought, anyway.

Sees the faintest image of Steve hovering above him, and licks his lips. His mouth tastes of something sugary, and Steve is holding his hand, actually pressing lips to the back of his hand and that's…sweet, Danny thinks, and as he lets his eyes close and open and then close again, and he sinks a little further away from it all, words leave him on a tired breath.

"Sweet as a malasada."

End.


End file.
